Prepping for Paris-Roubaix

All is quiet now...

This Sunday all of us who are suckers for a great bike race will be sitting down in front of the TV (or hunkering along a roadside in northern France if we're lucky) to witness one of the greatest single day races on the calendar.  For cycling connoisseurs this is the greatest month in cycling.  Sorry, July.  Last Sunday we had De Ronde van Vlaanderen, Paris-Roubaix this Sunday, and then the week of the Ardennes Classics beginning on the 20th.  It's the height of the Spring Classics season, and there isn't a better time of year to be a cycling fan.  I love the Spring Classics, particularly the ones in April, more than anything else on the schedule.  I love how unpredictable they are.  I love the landscape.  And, I love the intensity.  It's really hard to pick a favorite race.  Even after spectating almost all of them last year, I still couldn't pick one.  You can't beat the atmosphere at the Tour of Flanders.  Paris-Roubaix is hauntingly gorgeous.  The legacy and unique nature of the Ardennes can't be denied.  But, for many Roubaix is their number one.  It's a pretty big deal.

This week the teams are out on reconnaissance rides, prepping their bikes and minds for the Hell of the North.  Meanwhile, we fans have our own prepping to do.  We certainly shouldn't arrive on Sunday ill prepared anymore than the riders should.  How does a fan prepare, you ask?

First off, it doesn't hurt to review the events of last year's race.  You can watch the entire broadcast of the 2013 Paris-Roubaix here.   Of course, it wouldn't hurt to catch up on the 2012 edition either and relive Tom Boonen's famous solo ride.  Next, there are the documentaries.  The most well-known is Jørgen Leth's A Sunday in Hell which documents the 1976 edition featuring The Merckx, Roger De Vlaeminck, Francesco Moser, and Freddy Maertens.  This is one of the greats in cycling documentaries, but a little difficult to get your hands on.  Snippets are available online, but if you want to watch the whole thing you'll have to buy a copy.  Those aren't too easy to find either.  The next great documentary is the 2009 Road to Roubaix.  Lastly, you can catch the CBS broadcast of the 1988 edition which not only covers the race, but provides some great behind the scenes footage of Team 7-Eleven.  And, if you don't mind an amateur's attempt, here's my quick video of the Arenberg from last year.  


Trouée d'Arenberg from CG Inlux on Vimeo.

As for reading material, I have two recommendations.  First of all, the write up on The Inner Ring website is a fantastic, quick read on the history of the race.  They also feature some beautiful photos.  For a more lengthy story of L'enfer du Nord, check out the recently published book The Monuments by Peter Cossins.  I haven't gotten to the Roubaix section yet, but the Liege-Bastogne-Liege chapter was very well done.  

With all that under your belt you should be pretty well prepared for Sunday.  As for Sunday itself, all you have to do is find the least dodgy feed (unless you live somewhere that will broadcast in English), sit back, and watch the drama unfold.  Of course, all of this would be more enjoyable if preceded or followed by a bike ride (depending on your timezone).  But, you're guaranteed a successful Roubaix if it includes a great menu.  I've spent most of the week focusing on my Roubaix Day dinner and I'm pretty pleased with the final lineup.  For those who are interested, here's what I've come up with:

Starter

Deviled Eggs de l'enfer

Main

Poulet avec Pavè

"Punctured" Flat Noodles with Herbs

Classic Spring Classic Salad

Dessert*

Cinnamon-Sugar Dusted Shortbread Cobbles

or

Nutella Mud Pie

*Dessert Menu dependent on Sunday's weather.  I'm hoping for rain.

Drink pairings have yet to be determined.  I'm taking recommendations, as long as it's something I can find in a German grocery store.  

Anyway, Sunday will definitely not disappoint in regards to the racing.  Will Cancellara pull off a fourth win?  Will Boonen set the new record for the most wins?  Or, will another contender take the glory?  We'll find out on Sunday.  See you there!

Stranger Things Have Happened, I Think

I'm pretty sure we all have things we hate, downright detest.  We probably have lists.  Well, I have a list.  When I was a kid my list was Mathematics (this included all branches therein, homework, and class), going to the orthodontist, piano recitals, and Easter dresses.  I loathed Math (or Maths as you may prefer) because I didn't get it, struggled with it from the time we began subtracting, and it was always the thorn in my report card.  The orthodontist, well, who really enjoys the orthodontist?  People sick in the head, that's who.  The fellow who "reshaped" my mandible and scarred a good portion of my childhood was old-school in his methodology.  His techniques included, and I kid you not, hammers, chisels, cement, and the employment of assistants with a disturbing lack of empathy.  While I'm glad I no longer resemble a bulldog, I can't say I ever warmed to the guy.  Piano recitals were just irritating.  Spending months on end practicing the same tired tune over and over again for the supposed entertainment of other parents who really only care about their child's performance always struck me as ridiculous.  And, Easter dresses?  That was just a matter of taste, the bane of the tomboy.  Since reaching adulthood, the list has certainly changed.  Math no longer troubles me, I have mastered the calculator and can successfully get through life.  The orthodontist hasn't been seen in over ten years and my mouth is quite happy about that.  I haven't touched a piano or publicly performed music in ages.   Of course, I haven't had an Easter dress since I began choosing my own wardrobe.

But there's still a list of preferred avoidances.  The list is mostly composed of food products like quiche and smoothies containing too much roughage.  Flying from US airports is on there.  Climbing hills on a bike is somewhere near the top of the list.  Like Math, I hate it because I struggle with it.  That's probably pretty lame of me.  I stopped hating Math because, basically, I no longer needed to do it.  I didn't "defeat" my Math issue by working harder at it, I just went through my formative years detesting about 100 minutes of every day spent in class and doing the work, having a pretty crappy attitude, then blissfully moving on once school was behind me having never really faced the beast.

I could very well just go about my cycling in the same way, tell myself I'm not built to climb hills and therefore never will successfully and avoid the hills at all possible.  Or.  Or, I could grow up a little.

A funny thing happened on Saturday.  The weather forecast was amazing so we planned a cookout with a few friends for the evening. We decided that an hour or so bike ride in the morning wouldn't be a bad idea given the evening's menu of hamburgers and beer.  It wasn't going to be a killer ride.  I was pretty beat after a full week of long rides and landscaping.  We were going to go easy.  We thought after having explored the major touring routes lately, that it was time to venture more "on road" into the smaller valleys.  So, we headed out.  Despite a Flemish headwind from the get go, things were going well.  After glancing at the map, we chose a 30km loop through some villages that would get us home in plenty of time to prep for our guests.  Google presented us with tantalizing "bike friendly, fit for grandma" roads.  All was going well until the second village.  Then, traffic started getting rather congested to the point we were track standing more than moving forward.  But, the map was pretty adamant that we would be in the clear once we hit the town limits.  I mean, there was a solid green line indicating a bike path next to the road.

There was no bike path when we got out of town.  In fact, this so-called bike friendly road was anything but.  It was a narrow road and a long, solid climb in heavy traffic.  My "Aaargh! Giant Hill!  I hate this!  I hate the world!  I hate everything!" switch was on the verge of getting flipped.  Then, it didn't.  I just kept pedaling.  I wasn't chipper about it, and I certainly wasn't flying, but my legs just kept doing what needed to be done.  When we got to the top, sure, I was hurting, but there we were.  There had been no stopping, there had been no walking.  And, you know what?  A thought crossed my mind.  "Hey, this is actually rather nice.  I think I sorta get the attraction."  Well, then it started pouring.  So much for the warm positive feelings and that beautiful forecast.

Then, we had to go down the hill to the next village.  Ok, I definitely get the attraction to climbing now.  If it hadn't been pouring buckets, my shoes weren't full of water, and if I hadn't been rather concerned about the husband riding on slicks...What am I saying? That descent was one heck of a ride!

After that it should have been pretty straight forward following the signs through the villages back to ours.  The trouble was, the weather just kept getting worse.  There was standing water on the roads, there was no sign of a let up, and it was getting progressively colder.  Once again, Google showed us an alternative "short cut"- solid green line, through forest, little to no traffic.  We should have known better.  I have to admit, I had a bad feeling when we turned onto the new route.  "Through forest" usually means tractor or logging road.  The forests are usually on top of large hills.  Such was the case.  This climb was brutal, vertical, positively evil.  Yeah, and there were still cars who were there for the shortcut, no speed camera advantage.  I was dying.  My poor legs, abused by a week of daily rides broken up with mulch spreading, shoveling, and rock hauling, were screaming.  It was torture.  It went on for miles.  I needed a break, also known as "photo opportunity."  But, we got back on those bikes and kept going, slowly, mind you, and we climbed that sucker.

The next descent wasn't so fun.  The road was tractor wide and it went straight down that hill all the way to the river, no turns, no pauses in the gradient.  It was still pouring.  There was mud everywhere.  I had a death drip on my brake levers.  Now it was my hands' turn to do the screaming.  That descent wasn't fun, it was freaking scary, especially when a tractor came at us full tilt.

We made it home, though rather a little worse for wear.  But, oddly enough, when we pulled into the driveway I didn't think back over the ride and focus on how horrible it was, how much it hurt, and how much I hate climbing.  We talked about how much fun that was.  I realized that actually I could do it.  With a little work and dedication, climbing would no longer be on the hate list.  I may never "dance on the pedals" up 11% grades, but I don't have to hate it.  I don't have to avoid it.  I do have the capacity to improve.  I could actually get to a point of enjoying it.

We'll see.  But, if I start praising quiche you should get concerned.

Friday Morning in the Village

When I think of good places, I think of the mornings there.  I'm not a morning person, so those days that I rise early and see places for what they are then without a pre-caffeine stupor are moments I remember clearly.  I remember a morning in Nice, walking the streets as the cafes were just opening on my way to a flea market.  The city was just waking up, people were going through their rituals, saying their greetings, just before things had really started that day.  It was a good morning.  I remember multiple mornings driving down the roads of Messinia in a Nissan Micra, a plastic cup of poorly diffused instant coffee sloshed next to me, the mist rising out of the olive groves, no one speaking, thoughts about the day wrapping around us.  Those mornings were beautifully painful.  They always started the same way, gut wrenching scenery, sleepy villages, old men and their prayer beads, really bad coffee, and thoughts.

We're three months into the German assignment.  I'm pretty sure it's the mornings I will recall with the most fondness when I look back 10, 20, 30 years from now.  A cup of perfect coffee sitting next to me, still.  The birdsong from the bush of sparrows outside the office.  Crisp, blue white skies and soft morning breezes.  A freighter with a German or Dutch flag chugging through the lock.  Swans flapping their massive wings against the water in takeoff sounding like the whomp-whomp of rotor blades.  Geese having a loud discussion of the day's territory. The next door neighbor going through her morning routine.  Tuesdays are cleaning day, Thursdays are for the garden, Fridays all the windows get opened.  There's a smell in the morning, an odd earthy, spicy odor coming off the river.  I wait until the afternoons after that's lifted to open my windows, but to each their own.

Joggers go by, singles and pairs.  When the sun is first coming up, it's the bike commuters who zip along, the sounds of clicking ball bearings and creaky chains telling the beginning of the day.  Dog walkers shuffle along the path beside the road, quietly.  Neither the dogs nor their owners seem particularly awake.  The village cats skitter through flower beds and along garden walls headed to wherever the schedule dictates.  Folks pass each other in the alley next to the house carrying eggs from the lady one block over who sells them from her front door.  Others carry fresh, still warm Brötchen from the bakery.  They all nod and say "Morgen!"  Some stop for a chat.  The cyclists that pass now are of the recreational sort, at the beginning of their rides, stretching the legs, smiles on their faces, and sun in their eyes.

Dew drips off grass blades and budding leaves.  The church bells ring in response to the ones tolling on the opposite riverbank.  Engines kick on and car doors slam.  Skateboards pass on the way to school.  The sun rises higher, the sky gets bluer.  I'm on the doorstep with a second cup of coffee, waiting for a package of...more coffee.  Sparrows pick at the grass between the bricks in the courtyard.  Two bikes rest against the garden wall, patiently waiting for a ride.  Laughter from somewhere around the corner.  A dog barking in the park.  Shadows getting shorter.  Sun warms orange tiled roofs.

Mornings aren't lost on me, the incurable night owl.  They're the time of promise, before the day has committed itself, while it's still an open book.  Here they're a perfect quiet peace.  They bring a smile, always, three months down the road.  As the day ripens, it goes in different directions, sometimes great, sometimes not so.  But, the mornings?

They always start out good and simple.  Life right now makes perfect sense.

The World is Round, People!

Look at this!  Two posts in one week?  Crazy, I know.  But, I'm feeling inspired, so here we go.

Women's cycling has been in the forefront this week.  With the Women's World Cup starting on the 15th and the fact it's getting actual coverage, the success of the Half the Road film, and the publicity female pros are getting, people are really starting to take notice.  Good things are happening.  It's pretty exciting.  It's also stirring debate, particularly on the same old subject of gear.

Ah, gear.  I'm a gear freak.  I just realized this recently when I was planning for an upcoming trip. I had more gear going into my bag than I had clothes.  I like things that involve collecting gear.  I love backpacking, an activity that is so gear centric most backpackers end up talking gear with each other instead of where they've been.  I love photography, an art that also requires an endless amount of gear and gear to carry said gear.  Then, of course, there's cycling.  You wear gear, your bike wears gear, you need gear for the gear, you need gear to clean the gear, and there's always new gear.  It's a gear freak's dream sport.  So, I'm always looking at cycling gear and I picked up on the debate raised this week on women's gear, specifically clothing.  Being a woman who rides a bike and needs clothing to do so, I have some opinions on the subject.  I've written about it before, and I'll get to that later.  First off though, here's what I think about the debate itself.

I like it.  I'm glad we have people talking about this subject outside of women's cycling blogs and forums.  I'm glad it's mainstream this week.  I'm very happy that people are saying, "Hey, look at this!  There are things that are moving in the right direction, but there's still work that needs to be done."  That means, at least in my opinion, that thanks to media coverage on the pro road side of things, that change is going to trickle down to the rest of us.  I really like that all sorts of women riders with all sorts of opinions are weighing in.  I really like it that the guys are voicing their opinions too.  I agree with some things are that said and I disagree with other things.  But, that's ok.  People are talking about it.

So here's what I think.

I'm not a roadie.  The Rules?  Eh.  Sure, I definitely agree there's a right way and wrong way to ride road, but I can't get fanatical about it.  To each their own (although, I think sporting team kit and wheelsucking a complete stranger for miles on end is very sad).  I certainly wouldn't pass muster for most roadies.  I'm an amateur.  Definitely.  I ride an entry level road bike.  I'm built like Cavendish during his husky years.  I hate climbing, passionately.  I have no desire to join in group rides or compete, ever.  I can't hang.  I honestly don't care.  Road cycling is something I enjoy doing on my own terms.  I like riding my road bike best.  I like how it handles, I like the aesthetics, I like the speed.  I like the gear.  But, you know what?  I also like riding my hybrid slowly along at German grandma pace, and I like spinning around on my hipster Schwinn in jeans and T on a warm evening.

Image www.teamestrogen.com

What I don't like is getting pigeonholed.  I think the cycling industry loves pigeonholing people, men and women alike.  Get some clear market definitions and it makes it a lot easier to sell stuff.  I don't like being told that because I'm a woman things have to be different for me, that I have to make compromises, that I have to fit in a clique to ride my bike.  I've never been good at that sort of thing, and I've never seen the point of it.  I mean, we're cyclists, right?  We're all just cyclists, men and women alike.  We're all at varying degrees of experience, we all have varying interests.  I don't think anyone likes being told they have to dress a certain way because they ride at one level or another.  I certainly don't think anyone, man or woman, likes being told they have to wear a certain color or style in sport because of their gender.  It's like telling women we have to go back to wearing dresses 24/7 and telling guys they have to wear a suit to work everyday.  It's a pretty archaic attitude.  All of us should be able to find the type of gear that performs best for our needs, our comfort, and our style.  It really shouldn't be that big of deal to find what we're looking for.

Image www.vulpine.cc

Look, I don't wear pink.  I don't do glitter.  I've been a committed tomboy since birth, and I'm not going to betray that when I ride my bike.  It would ruin the experience.  I like subdued stuff and earth tones.  I like solids and classic designs.  I like my jerseys to have real sleeves, pockets that fit more than an energy bar, and cut in way that acknowledges the fact I'm leaning over in the drops just like the boys.  I'm really pleased with brands that carry stuff like that, and I'm excited to see more and more new companies coming to the market with these types of styles.  Rapha has been a leader in that realm, but now we have the recently launched Velocio and the two year old super cool Vulpine in the ring (I mean, look at that sweet merino).  Even established recognizable brands like Castelli are toning down on the girl power centrism.  I'm not saying no one should make the pink, sparkle, flower stuff anymore.  Lots of women out there really like it and that's what they feel the most comfortable in.  That's cool.  We all need to feel good when we're riding.   I'm just really glad the industry is starting to put the breaks on the pink pigeonholing.  The clothing thing is moving in the right direction.  I hope down the road some of the lower priced shop brands will get on board so women with tastes like mine aren't frustrated by their gear options when entering the sport.  Nobody wants to drop a ton of money on clothes when they're first starting out, so cheaper, shop accessible options would be good.  Heck, I still have trouble swallowing some of the prices for the online brands.

But, beyond clothing there's still a lot of work ahead.  I hope the changes in that market will begin to affect the rest of the cycling industry.  WSD models are really making great advances, I'm loving what I see from Giant and Raleigh.  Its nice that those of us who need smaller frames and components can buy a bike off the rack and it's not baby blue or covered in butterflies.  My greatest hope is that I'll be able to walk into any bike shop someday and get treated respectfully and not like the little woman who doesn't know a cassette from a headset.  Not all shops are guilty of this and there are some amazing ones out there that are pleasure to work with, but to be honest Europe needs to try a little harder.

All in all though, I think we have reason to be excited and positive about what's happening.  I hope the debate continues and things keep changing.  As one of my favorite people, Cate Blanchett, said recently, "The World is round, people!"  Women cyclists have just as much right to the road, the bikes, and the clothes the boys get and the sooner we're are no longer marginalized or passed over the better.  I think we're on the right road.

The Most Important Patch of Land in France

There's an area up in northern France, you may have heard of it.  To look at it, you may not guess that it is probably one of the most significant places in the world.  Well, it is.

Utah Beach

Today, Normandy is one giant tourist attraction.  You'll hear more English being spoken here than you will French, even in the off season.  But, just a short 70 or so years ago this area was at the very eye of the storm during World War II.  One June 6, 1944, the Allies brought the fight to Hitler when they invaded Utah, Omaha, Juno, Sword, and Gold beaches.  From that point on, the tide of the war in Europe had definitely changed.

William the Conqueror's Castle, the imposing fortress of Falaise where the Duke
and future King of England was born and spent his early years.

But, incidentally, the events of D-Day aren't the only reason why Normandy is significant.  An invasion, this time in the reverse, which took place about 880 years prior is another claim to fame for the former Duchy.  Pretty much every student of Western history knows the date of 1066, when William the Bastard, Duke of Normandy, launched about 700 ships from Normandy on his way to the history changing battle at Hastings with Harold Godwinson.  The defeat of the Anglo-Saxon army by the Normans drastically altered the course of world history.  The repercussions of the Norman invasion cannot be overstated.  Normandy was William's home and where he spent most of his life, even after he became King of England.  It's where he learned to be one of the most successful military and government leaders to have ever lived.

Bayeux Cathedral, the original 

So, you see, Normandy is saturated in history.  It is positively dripping in it, actually.  The major cities of Caen and Bayeux are chock full of 12th Century edifices.  You can't turn a corner without running into some giant yellow sandstone monument to the Normans' power.  If you have a thing for medieval architecture, something I myself suffer from, you will be in heaven.  Despite the destruction of war that nearly leveled these cities, very few of the old buildings show any signs of that abuse today.  Bayeux is home to one of the most important works of European art too.  The Bayeux Tapestry resides in its very own museum in the heart of the city.  The tapestry is not only a work of art, but a historical document.  At seventy meters long, it tells the story of the Norman invasion, from Edward the Confessor's bequeathing of the crown to his cousin William, to Harold's adventures in Normandy, to his snatching of the crown upon Edward's death, to the building of the Norman fleet, to the final moments of the battle in 1066.  For a piece of cloth that is almost 1000 years old, it doesn't show it's age.  It's incredible, not only because of the level of craftsmanship and the aesthetics, but because of its fantastic detail.  You can learn a lot about what things were like in the Middle Ages just by studying this 70m long cloth.

Obviously, however, most people visit Normandy because of the events of 1944.  Today, it's hard to imagine as you walk through the quaint streets of the cities or the beaches the amount of violence that erupted here.  It's an inherently peaceful place of stone villages, seaside cottages, and sun dappled gardens.  But, you don't have to look too closely to see evidence of what went down here.

German jackboot print in a ruined artillery bunker.

One of Hitler's last surviving guns, now silent overlooking the Channel at Longues-sur-Mer

The D-Day sites of Normandy have been written about time and again by authors far more knowledgable and talented than myself.  I will not begin to pour into the events, the characters, and the immensities of D-Day.  It's too much to take in, process, and then re-disseminate.  I didn't expect to be moved when we visited the American cemetery.  I've spent many hours in cemeteries for my work back in the day.  Never once was I overwhelmed by a cross or a name and a date.  Here, however, I was.  How do you reacted to field after field of pure white stone representing a lives cut down in their prime for a cause they couldn't have understood?  I don't know.  It's something that has be seen to understand

So, visit Normandy? Yes.  Visit Normandy even if you don't care one iota about history?  Yes.  The food is good, and you may actually learn something too.  Learning never hurt anyone.  Normandy has a lot to teach.  It played a major role in two of the most significant events in world history, events which shape our present world.  Of any place in France, perhaps even more than that famous tower, this is one spot you should visit.

Lovin' Leuven

Ok, I realize I talk about Belgium a lot.  I understand that I might have a small addiction to the place.  However, since the move to Germany, I don't think we'll be getting there much anymore.  When we realized that, we decided to ween ourselves off the land of strong beer and golden frites instead of going cold turkey.  So, one more visit was in order last weekend.  There was one place we wanted to visit one more time and another we hadn't made it to yet.

The revisit, of course, had to be L'Ancien Hopital in Saint-Hubert.  As they say, the third time's the charm.  We were pretty certain that it was our favorite restaurant ever, but a third visit would seal the deal.  We were right, not that there were any doubts.  This time we also booked a room, so it's not only the best restaurant ever, but it's also a lovely place to spend the weekend.  My final words on the subject:  If you are in Belgium (I'm talking to you, cycling fans) you need to make a special trip down to Saint-Hubert for a meal.  You will not be disappointed.  I'm certain of it.  Plus, it'll give you the opportunity to ride the lesser known roads of Wallonia.

Ok, now on to Leuven.  When people (I mean non-cycling fans now) visit Belgium, if they do at all, the big draws are Brussels and Bruges.  As a result, there are a lot of other equally awesome (if not better) cities that stay under the radar.  You get all the same sorts of things that draw people to the Big B's, but none of the tour buses.  Leuven is one of those cities.

Leuven is a university city.  It's about 25km east of Brussels in Flanders, so a piece a cake to visit on a day trip or an overnight stop if time in Belgium is brief.  While it's not like the preserved medieval cities of Bruges and Gent, it has a lot to offer the visitor.

First of all, it is home to InBev, the largest brewer in the world.  Stella Artois is brewed in the city and opens its doors to groups of visitors on the weekends.  If you're traveling with a large group, this might be worth a look.  English tours are provided.  If you're not interested in a tour or can't tag along with a group, you can visit their on site shop to pick up a souvenir.  Now, for those who prefer craft beer over the big factory brews, Leuven is also home to the smaller Huisbrouwerij Domus which makes 3 crafts at their location in the center as well as a pub.  Still not impressed with the brewing options?

The last weekend of April is Leuven's Beer Weekend (April 26-27 in 2014). It is the largest Belgian beer festival in the world!  During the weekend at least 100 brewers will be in the city offering their wares, there will be special tours at Domus and Stella, and special beer themed tours of the city.  We were told the majority of the participants are small craft breweries so it's an opportunity to try beers you won't find outside of this part Belgium.  As a bonus, this is the same weekend as Liège-Bastogne-Liège, so if you're in the area for the Ardennes Classics anyway...

Ok, enough about the beer.

Leuven being a University city, the oldest Catholic University in the world actually, is vibrant and eclectic.  You won't find the same old same old in Leuven.  The pedestrian shopping district is one of the largest I've visited and is dominated by unique boutiques and shops you won't find in every other city.  If you're interested in picking up something besides the usual tourist trap junk this would be a place to look.  There are plenty of churches and chapels to explore if you're an architecture enthusiast.  And there's a well reviewed art museum, M, if you're looking for an afternoon to appreciate Flemish masters or contemporary art.

And dinner?  You won't have trouble finding a place to cater to your cravings.  You can find traditional Flemish restaurants or something with a more creative bent.  Of course, if you're in the mood for Italian or Mexican or just about anything else, they have that too.  There are some truly fine dining options available.  You will definitely eat well.  But, make sure you book ahead.

Of course, the city has the same charm of the other Belgian cities with a massive (currently being restored) cathedral, flamboyant Town Hall, and traditional Flemish architecture.  It's a pleasure to stroll through the city squares, especially after hours when the shopping crowds clear out and the buildings are lit.

So, if you have time and want to see a corner of Belgium that's often overlooked, give Leuven a shot.  You may been pleasantly surprised!

Crossing Paths

The road wasn't really a road.  It was the type of two track we used to enjoy plowing up in our Wrangler back in the day.  By the looks of things, nothing of that size had come through this way in quite some time, just people, dogs, and the occasional mountain bike.  We were on foot.  We had to be on foot this time.  I didn't want to miss a single tree, leaf, rock, or mud puddle.  We were following someone, someone I never knew or met.  He had been long gone by the time I showed up on earth, but he is a part of who I am nevertheless.  Life has a funny way of working out.  Of all the places to find him, I never thought it would be here, walking through the mud up a hill that doesn't have a name to a village that could barely be labeled as such to see a view that really isn't that incredible compared to others we've seen.  Then again, it was the most incredible of all.

It was a couple of days into the last real battle his Infantry division would see during The War.  They had just crossed over the Main River that day and were techincally behind the Nazi lines.  The Nazis weren't there, however, they had all been called into the city of Aschaffenburg, about 15km down river.  It was the end of March 1945 and the war in Europe would be over in little more than a month.  Of course, he didn't know that, even though up until this point they had met with little resistance from the Nazi forces.  But, for some inexplicable reason they were holding Aschaffenburg with surprising resilience.  His Field Artillery Battalion traveled in support of an infantry regiment assigned to attacking the city from the south.  So, here they were up on the top of an insignificant hill preparing to fire the big guns at one of the final military strongholds of the Nazis.

He'd landed in North Africa in June 1943, in July he was in the invasion of Sicily, and in September he and his division invaded Salerno.  In January of 1944, his division was ordered to invade behind the Gustav Line at Anzio.  They'd been dug in during that terrible siege for four months.  Next, in August, they landed in Southern France to begin the advance towards Germany.  They crossed the Belfort Gap, the Moselle River, the Mortagne River, and the Zintzel River, before they finally broke through the Siegfried Line on March 17, 1945.  By now, most of his friends that had landed with him in Africa had been killed.  But, after meeting little resistance since France, the men of his division began to think that they may make it home.  He had begun to make plans about life after the War.  He and his best friend Eddie had served together in the same Battery since basic training.  They talked about opening a car dealership back in New Jersey.  He'd written his fiancée about setting up the guest room for Eddie so he'd have a place to crash in a city that would be flooded with returning troops.  All they had to do was stay alive and wait for the fall of Berlin, which as this rate wouldn't be too far off.  Perhaps, if they were lucky, they'd get out of being sent to the Pacific.  But, plans change and war is unpredictable.

They crossed the Rhine on March 26th.  It was during that historic crossing that Eddie had been shot and killed right next to him.  It was a cruel twist of fate.  So cruel, he could barely bring himself to write home about it.  All he could say was to forget setting up the guest room.  Eddie wasn't coming home.  Now, here he was on this stupid hill a few days later preparing to bombard a city that for some reason just refused to accept the obvious and surrender.  Many of the men hadn't felt this low since Anzio.  More than likely, this was the worst he'd ever felt.  They'd hit that city with artillery for several more days to come.  The southern assault worked and the line was broken, but still the soldiers holding Ascaffenburg refused to give in.  By the end of the battle the American infantrymen were fighting hand to hand, from house to house with not only soldiers but civilians who answered the edict from Berlin to fight for the Fatherland to the death.  The battle lasted ten days.  When the city was surrendered on April 3rd, it was barely anything more than a rubble heap.  By then he was just outside of the city itself and the big guns were finally silent.  The massive Schloss Johannisberg was in ruins.  To the him and his fellow soldiers, it couldn't have seemed like anything more than a waste.  Too many people had died for nothing more than the twisted ideology of psychotic tyrants.

They didn't stay in these parts long.  They moved on to Nuremburg next and on April 29 members of his division liberated the Dachau Concentration Camp.  Two days later they captured Münich.  They'd be there on V-E Day and mercifully were spared that inevitable removal to the Pacific when Japan surrendered in August.  He'd get to go home after all.  He married his fiancée shortly after he returned.  They had two children.  He went to college and would go on to open that car dealership.  But, he never really came back from Europe.  The man who left for the War in 1943 was not the man who came back to New Jersey in '45.  He would still talk to anyone he met on the street, he was still unfailingly kind, he still had a sense of humor.  But, he had demons too, demons he picked up in Sicily, Salerno, Anzio, France, and a particularly nasty one that showed up while crossing the Rhine.  They kept him distant from his loved ones, they kept him from talking about the war, they drove him to the bottle and alcoholism.  It was thanks to those demons that he died long before he should have, long before I showed up to know him and have him tell me about this hill himself.

Nearly 69 years later, I stood on that hill too.  I learned about it not from family stories or old letters.  I learned about this hill from a US Army map stuck in a report about the Battle of Ascaffenburg.  I'd been reading the report to learn about where I live, not to find my grandfather.  As fate would have it, this hill is three miles down river from where I live, overlooking a town I ride my bike through regularly and across the river from where we get our groceries.  I'd been crossing paths with my grandfather almost every day, and I'd had no idea until I saw that map.  So, in some way I thought standing on this hill and looking out over a view he'd seen too would give me a glimpse into his life.  The only smoke I saw was from chimneys.  The only sounds came from children laughing in the village below and birds in the trees above me.  The view was of a quiet countryside.  It was the same hill, but it was not the same place.  Fifteen kilometers downriver, Aschaffenburg is a bustling city.  The castle is rebuilt.  The Germany I see, the Germany I live in, is a far cry from the one my grandfather saw.

So, I lit a candle.  I lit it not only for my grandfather who I've only known in photographs, but for all the men who's pictures hang on walls or who's names are inscribed on memorials.  I lit it to thank him and them for being willing to face the bullets and the bombs and the demons to stop a terrible evil so that the view I see can be only described in one word:  peaceful.

Sixty-nine years is a long time, and then again it isn't.  It's all too easy to acknowledge the past in passing, glance at memorials, pause at fluttering flags.  But slabs of marble don't always tell the stories that need telling.  Sometimes the landscape is the better bard.  I didn't see my grandfather's ghost up there, but I felt him just for a second or maybe I heard his voice in the sounds of birds and children.  "We fought here so you could walk here.  Don't forget us."

No, Grandfather, I won't.  Until I see you on the other side, I'll meet you at all the perfect and peaceful views you've given me.